Honey & Wine: Love's Verses are Twisted like Twine
by Somber-and-Resplendent
Summary: It had been rumored that the Baron had taken in a gypsy child from the streets and raised her as his own daughter; it had also been rumored that the Judge, solemn and apathetic as he was, fell for the woman and locked her away in his heart.


**Note: This story was created to fill a prompt on Disney Kink at Live Journal**

 _Honey & Wine: Love's Verses are Twisted like Twine_

* * *

It had been rumored that the Baron, due to his grieving over the loss of his daughter whom had perished upon the ninth day of her sprouting life, had taken in a gypsy child from the streets. Many had claimed that the meager child had been caught stealing fine cloth from the hanging lines beyond the garden. She had been taught to do so by her guardian, a rather scrawny man with a pointed black beard and an erratic laugh. The Parisians called him an outcast, the gypsies called him King, but the child called him father.

And it was on this fine summer's day that the child wrung the cloth in her tiny fists in an attempt to free the material from the hanging line that the Baron caught her in the act and swept her into his arms. She had fought him, screamed, and kicked her little feet, but at that moment the Baron knew he could not let her go. He'd raise the child as his own, teach her right from wrong, and present her to his wife, the Baroness, who had been bedridden for quite some time.

It was the last time the child would ever see the gypsy King again, the man she called father.

The Baron locked the child away in his estate, this dirty gypsy whom he hoped to cleanse and make polished. Her skin was like that of shadows and her dark hair was matted; he often jested that it reminded him of the tangled bristles of a broom. Nevertheless he adored the child, praised the beauty of her emerald eyes, and had named her Esmeralda as such. If only, he hoped, those two green jewels would twinkle in happiness and call him father.

But she never did.

She was an unruly child: often threw tantrum fits during the silent hours of the morning, never failed to disobey the Baron's strict orders of diligence and poise, and she always made certain that her haughty, mumbling words after a blistering argument reached his ears as he left the room, locking her inside in hopes that she would learn a lesson.

She never did.

And in retaliation, she'd run up and down the halls of his estate, gliding her sticky fingers, in which she had dipped into her morning breakfast, along the walls.

The Baron had failed to control the child.

"What do you think of the girl?" the Baron had asked his wife upon presenting the child to her. "Isn't she marvelous?" He gently prompted his little Esmeralda forward. She was reluctant, refused to move her feet which had almost fell numb at the sight of the Baroness, and the scratchy dress she wore made her squirm like a worm.

Esmeralda was denounced.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Baroness had complained, jabbing a sharp hand in Esmeralda's face. "She is a gypsy. Gypsies are not welcome in this home—Take her back."

"I cannot. I cannot see her go back to the alleys. She is but a child."

"A child that is not ours," his wife corrected him, "and a gypsy at that."

She was evermore displeased, despised the girl, and rarely showed her affection, for no gypsy brat could replace the Pure Princess she had lost. And time did not heal such wounds.

However, though the Baron adored the girl, she did not return such affections and had run away many times in which the Baroness would respond with a shrug, "Better to let the child go back to the wild."

But the Baron always swept his little Esmeralda back into his arms no matter how hard she kicked, no matter how loud she screamed for the man she called father, "Clopin!"

And it was there in the Baron's estate that she remained. She was privileged yet damned, stolen and cherished, lost but found.

* * *

The first time her name was spoken in the Judge's presence, those perfect syllables that were grand enough to be announced by Grand Dukes and Duchesses at a royal ball and forbidden enough to be whispered in the darkest alleys of the city, he was presiding over a tiresome trial at the Palais de Justice.

"Esmeralda—the Baron's daughter. She's to appear at Monsieur Lafayette's gala," said Verdell, a tall man with a balding head, low brow, and dark lips. Many feared him, however, few lacked the wisdom required to notice how particularly harmless the man was, for he was blind.

"Ah—yes," added Mahieu, a rather short man with a heavy mustache, "I've heard she will arrive in a carriage of silver—her father is a very wealthy man."

"He must be proud of her," said Verdell, leaning in his seat to speak to Mahieu who was plainly sitting beside him.

"She's a spoiled wretch," said another, Gifford, a scrawny man with a hunched back and a long white beard that brushed up against the table top. He often overheard conversations to pass the time, and he always added his thoughts which were usually looked highly upon, however, at this moment, the men in the court disagreed.

"The child is brilliant!" said Verdell, his face completely turned to left as if addressing Monsieur D'or, who was indifferent, though Gifford sat to the right of Mahieu. Verdell was hard of hearing as well so it seems.

"Agreed!" added Mahieu.

"She is like every other woman in France," said Gifford, "You praise her for what she has accomplished, yet you all forget that it was her father's money that gave her such privileges to education. And I can assure you an educated woman is rather vile. They begin to think that they need neither marriage nor discipline—rubbish! The child may be brilliant, but she is a brat nonetheless."

"So the child is privileged, it makes her no less grandeur," said Mahieu.

"You should praise her father for allowing the child to have such privileges, or perhaps-after all when the child was introduced to society he was heavily criticized, mocked, and belittled. The woman is a gypsy!"

"Nay!" cried Verdell, "She is a gem, one that has been polished by the finest hands."

"And are gems not to be kept in their place?" retorted Gifford with a sneer.

"Nay! Nay! Let us not fight, brothers!" cried Mahieu, splitting the tension with his large gut in which he placed between the feuding men.

And then _he_ spoke, "Gentlemen, have we lost focus?"

"No, Your Honor," said Verdell with a bowed head.

"Very well, back to your duties."

The second time her name was spoken in the Judge's presence, that tantalizing spell which oddly left him numb, he was brooding in the dungeons of the Palais de Justice, smirking at the sounds of agonizing screams which followed the crack of a whip.

"Your Honor," called a blonde-haired man, "I have received a summons that you requested my presence." His name was Phoebus. He was a rather tall man with strong, large arms and a square jaw. He had been summoned from the wars, this valiant Captain, and was to take the place of the man whom the whip cracked upon.

"You're late, Captain. I detest such things."

"Forgive me, Your Honor. I haven't seen Paris in over ten years—everything has changed." He chuckled at his own memories when such tall buildings did not exist and the dog-eared map in his satchel was less cluttered. However, the Judge mildly frowned.

"Follow me," he ordered grimly, gliding down the dark corridors of the dungeons. In this fashion he appeared to be like a phantom, a haunting apparition that tortured the souls of the unjust.

He had led Phoebus to a towering window, pulled back the dark curtains, and pointed a stiff finger to the city down below. "The real war is what you see before you—Gypsies. They've infiltrated my borders and spread their heathen practices among the people." Glowering at the scene that unfolded upon the city grounds, a gypsy puppeteer enchanting a crowd of Parisian children with his stories and colorful costume, the Judge snickered.

A great roar of cheering and applause ruptured, and Phoebus, ensnared by the merriment, averted his gaze and caught sight of a silver carriage.

"Esmeralda!" he shouted with a wide smile, placing his large hands upon the window like a child glaring at Christmas toys in December.

The Judge was rather indifferent and refused to cast his gaze upon the approaching carriage. He hadn't the slightest care and found himself busy with his mental list of flaws he found within his new Captain: late and easily distracted like a mangy mutt being teased with a bone.

However, the third time her name was spoken in the Judge's presence, that name which echoed in his mind in the silence of his prayers, she was standing before him, that goddess, that woman, _that gypsy_.

* * *

The Baron was jubilant. He hadn't expected the presence of the Judge, his dear old friend; and perhaps he was further grateful due to his travel from Paris, which, splendidly, meant that the Judge would reside in town far longer than a day or two.

"Claude Frollo," said the Baron with open arms and a gleeful smile. "I have greatly missed your company, dear friend. And I am so pleased that you decided to attend the gathering." He gestured towards the main hall where a few women lingered, whispering back and forth as they eyed the menacing Judge, that figure cloaked in a black robe, much fearsome than the Reaper himself.

"I was elated when I received your invitation," said the Judge with a wry smile, "Do forgive me for not visiting sooner."

"Of course, dear friend!" cried the Baron, throwing his arms around the old Judge like a child welcoming his father home from a long day. "You've come at a pressing hour—it's superb!"

The Baron whisked the Judge away into his private quarters, and the two friends chatted until the evening sun crept upon the floor.

"I've a favor to ask of you," the Baron began, musing over the curled edges of a piece of parchment lying atop his desk. "I've always praised your ministrations—always looked highly upon you. And, at this moment, I find myself in need of your assistance."

The Judge nodded, reached for his goblet of wine sitting atop the table, and swirled the liquid about. "I do hope you aren't in need of money. I haven't the patience for such stupidity."

The Baron idly chuckled, "It's my daughter, Claude. She's gone through five instructors and I've run out of options. She's a haughty thing."

"Ah—you want me to teach the girl?"

The Baron nodded and his cheeks turned red; he was rather ashamed. The Judge, however, took the opportunity lightly,

"It takes a firm hand to control the tainted nature of a woman. I propose that the required subjects would include History, Latin, and Religion."

"Yes, of course," replied the Baron with downcast eyes."Ah—but my daughter is a fine, young lady. I want nothing but the best for her."

"Naturally," replied the Judge, partially amused at the Baron's shame. And then taking a sip of wine, he added, "When shall the lessons begin?"

"Immediately."

The new dawn poured in through the windows of the parlor room. It was rather empty save for a long, narrow table, a few chairs, a pile of books, and a woman. When the Judge entered, his scent dispersing into the room and dancing around her, she glanced back over her shoulder at the old man, that harsh slab of black entering her world.

And then their eyes met; it was all it took, that fleeting glance. She, standing there before the windows, the sunlight embracing her like a long lost lover and setting her body aflame, was like a goddess, an Angel: God's most treasured and perfect creation. _A gypsy._

"Good Morning, Your Honor," she said, beautiful lips mildly smiling at him. It was short-lived. She removed her eyes from him, those precious jewels, and directed her gaze to the scene beyond the windows: A valiant soldier with golden armor and fair hair stood outside guarding a black coach, the Judge's coach.

"Good Morning, Esmeralda," replied the Judge after some time; and how interesting it was that her name fell from his lips. That _name_ , _her_ name, the name of a _gypsy_.

Had he the chance to flee the situation at hand, snarl at this gypsy who dare hold herself in high regards in the Baron's house, he would have. But the fall was inevitable; teacher and pupil bonded, found themselves lost in deep conversations, and even argued once or twice over conflicting views, many of them concerning gypsy vagabonds and proper etiquette. Nevertheless, she was still as radiant as the first time he saw her.

"Shall we continue the events leading to the reign of King David?" he began, taking a seat at his usual chair and flipping the pages of the Holy Book.

She nodded. Her mind was elsewhere, eyes fixed upon the glowing sun in the distance beyond the large windows.

"Very well," said the Judge, sliding his finger down the page of the Holy Book, "And it came to pass as they came, when David returned from the slaughter of the Philistines, that the women came out of all cities of Israel, singing and dancing, to meet King Saul, with tabrets, with joy, and with instruments of musick. And the women answered one another as they played, and said, ' _Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands'_ " (1 Samuel 18:6-7).

Esmeralda grimaced at the last phrase, and her body grew tense and stiff. "King David," she said with a dark tone, sneering at the praise he had received, "He fell as any human could have fallen."

The Judge snickered, contorting his dark brows into that of fury, "How typical for a gypsy to twist the truth of the Holy Book and condemn a righteous King."

"Righteous?" she hissed, directing her gaze to the old Judge, green eyes shimmering with fury. "He sent the husband of his mistress to the forefront of the fiercest battle yearning that he'd be slaughtered amongst the rest. Does that make a righteous King?"

The Judge grinned, but it was neither out of approval nor agreement, but of mockery, "The fault is that of the woman, conjuring up a disgusting display before the King's house and stirring such unholy visions in his mind which lead to the slaughtering of her husband. But, of course, I would not expect you to grasp the simplicity of the Holy Book."

Esmeralda scoffed at that phrase, ' _Disgusting Display_ ,' for the woman who had caught the righteous King's eye was merely bathing in the evening of the day. Esmeralda crossed towards the old judge, leaned upon the narrow table at which he sat, and dared to challenge him.

"Yet he couldn't remove his eyes," she said, absentmindedly sliding her hand about the History book that lay atop the table, causing it to fall to the ground with a loud thud. And when she took notice of her error, she bent over to collect it, her plump breasts nearly spilling into view from the low collar of her morning attire.

And he couldn't remove his eyes.

Day after day she'd wait before the tall windows, the sun caught in her raven hair, for she never ceased to miss his weekly arrivals, his black coach rolling down the stone path. She'd hold her breath as he sauntered past the front gates, that apparition coming for her, his dark eyes glancing towards the windows and catching her hardened stare. And she'd blush and smile, waiting for him, suffocating at the mere thought of him.

"The world is a dark place," he would say, their minds drowning in another argument, or more appropriately, a debate.

"The world is a hopeful place," she'd respond passionately, this beautiful opponent with glowing, green eyes that sparkled when touched by anger. "The world is swelling with love whether it is dark and corrupt or soft. It is love's verses that fill us and keep us happy: love in friendships, love in laughter, love in memories."

He smirked, for her words were naïve, "Love's verses are trivial, twisted like twine and misleading." _Misleading_ , yes, _she_ was misleading: this gypsy clothed in the finest of silks and adorned with the heaviest of jewels.

But he fell for this woman nonetheless.

Seated in his usual chair, he flipped through the pages of the Holy Book, seeking the verse in which they had concluded their last lesson.

"Ah—yes," he drawled, guiding his finger down the Book of Samuel and beginning from the top verse. However, as he read he found that her mind, yet again, was elsewhere. She eyed the garden beyond the windows, her body leaning upon the glass, and with one small, delicate movement of her shoulder the sleeve of her gown fell. And though such little skin was revealed, the Judge faltered.

The Holy Book grew heavy upon his legs where a throbbing pain surged between them. He couldn't remove his eyes from this woman's body, this goddess set aflame by the light of the sun, by the fires of Hell— _Hellfire!_

"Why did you stop?" she asked, cutting through his thoughts.

"Forgive me," he quickly managed, rubbing at his eyes which had been gazing into the bright, luminous flames that danced in his fireplace the night before, an image of a goddess burning within them ensnaring his mind and leaving him restless. Guiding his finger down the length of the page, searching for the verse that last left his dry lips, he felt a sudden presence: her. She stood before him, gazing at him as if he were something to be worked, a puzzle to be pieced together.

Carefully, she bent forward and allowed her eyes to leave him and grace the pages of the Holy Book nearly slipping out of his hands.

"Here," she said, a lone finger pointing to a verse. He studied her momentarily before allowing his eyes to travel down the length of her neck, to the structure of her collarbone, and to the dip between her breasts; the verse had long lost its importance.

Not one word was spoken. Silence had befriended them in this hour, save the light thud from the fallen Holy Book which followed after a single kiss.

A kiss from a _gypsy_.

* * *

In the waking hour of the morning, the Baroness glided down the halls with a deepening frown and stiff arms, for she had seen an unsettling sight: her supposed daughter beneath the Judge atop a table where religious lessons had once been taught. She was as repulsed as she was livid.

"Wife?" called the Baron as she stormed into his quarters. "Whatever are you doing up at this hour?"

She glowered at him, and if she could have swiped the petty concern off of his face she would have. "Do you know where your gypsy is?"

He instantly grimaced at that word, _gypsy_. The Baroness had long since abandoned the girl's name, Esmeralda, and referred to her as what she was: a gypsy.

"She's in the study," he said, turning away from her heated glare.

"Learning how to properly mewl before a man?"

The Baron sharply turned around, eyeing his furious wife. However, they both knew that no retort would spill from his lips.

"You will marry her off before she conceives a curse," said the Baroness, "Surely a firm handed husband will be able to control her natural wanton nature."

"She's too young for marriage," said the Baron after some time, averting his eyes from his grousing wife and watching the servants drape freshly washed linens upon the hanging line beyond the garden. He smiled at the memory of his little Esmeralda twisting her small, dirty hands upon the cloth. If only she could have remained his little Esmeralda, an innocent child he hoped to shelter and smother with his undying love for eternity.

The Baroness snickered as if she saw the vision in his mind and promptly left; the words of her husband were trivial as they were false.

A fine man had been selected. However he lived far beyond the outskirts of Paris, and the Baroness was justly radiant. The ceremony was to be small, but the Baroness enjoyed her chatty mistresses and gossip, and soon the news of Esmeralda's betrothal consumed all listening ears.

"Mademoiselle," said a soldier from the door. A few bustling servants hurried to tend to his needs, and when he requested to see Esmeralda they shuffled out of the room and gossiped amongst each other.

She stood alone. Her dark skin was wrapped in white making her glow in her solitude; she was mesmerizing. The soldier removed his golden helm and widened his eyes at the sight of her, for he had heard of her name (as so many others had as well) but he had never had the opportunity to be in her presence.

"Esmeralda," he said absentmindedly, each syllable leaving his lips tingling. "You must come with me." He bowed before her, golden hair curtaining his face.

"I am to be married," she responded lowly, solemn eyes gazing out the tall windows.

"But I am here to escort you to your betrothed," said the soldier. She turned to him in slight confusion and instantly recognized his structured face: Phoebus.

"Come," he beckoned with a smile, taking her hand in his. He led her to the front gates, and when the wedding bells chimed a black coach rolled down a stone path.

The destination: Paris.

 **A/N: If you liked it, tell me what you think! :) Reviews are appreciated.**


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